


Tour De Force

by MorgoMoonscar



Category: Disco Elysium (Video Game)
Genre: Alcoholism, Gen, Like a literal fist fight, The usual Disco faire, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-04
Updated: 2020-03-04
Packaged: 2021-02-28 16:41:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23010397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MorgoMoonscar/pseuds/MorgoMoonscar
Summary: Before Martinaise and the Hardie Boys, Shanky and Titus meet in a gruesome boxing match.---Sweat poured down Shanky's face, he wiped it with his towel and it came back crimson. Bastard busted his eyebrow. Somewhere buried deep, he realized this wasn’t going to be a fight to win gracefully. It was a fight to reduce bodily damage. Titus stared at him across the ring, stone faced. Predatory almost. A hint of disappointment set in the twist of his mouth.
Kudos: 5





	Tour De Force

**Author's Note:**

> This story is based on one my dad used to tell me about boxing on the side while in the Royal Air Force. Hope y'all enjoy it as much as I enjoyed writing it.

The night sky pissed rain and hailstones down on the old beaten pavement. Shadows hung deep and black in the alleys and corners of Jamrock. Even the lucky fucks in thick coats tugged their collars higher as they walked. Dennis wore a thin sports jacket; it was proudly made in Revachol out of shit-quality leather. He was warmed by a moonshine fire burning low in his stomach next to the peppers and onions he called dinner. One more fight and he could have steak and whiskey again.

Dennis breathed on his cold-stiff hands and walked past the neon-lit entrance of a nearly empty laundromat. The sparse walls and wide paths between machines made the store seem several sizes too large. He ducked into the alley beyond it and yanked open an iron cellar door. A yellow halo of light shined up at him and lit his scrunched up face. He could almost see the boxer locker room. He dreaded every step closer.

There was nothing harder than going to a fight you knew you had to lose. The gang had him buttering up the crowds all week. They threw him at dopey muscles who couldn't throw a punch straight. Slow, clumsy footwork. Inexperienced reflexes. He laid them flat round after round. Now, it was time to collect. He couldn’t be paid til the final act was done. The money from the sure-fire bet was one bonus for the mob. They also had a new fighter and wanted his entrance to make a big splash for the next scam ‘round the bend. The Titan they called him.

The rusty hinges shrieked as Dennis lowered the door over his head. As he turned and walked down the steps he set his jaw. He couldn’t be Dennis down here; he had to switch mindsets. No more thoughts of bills and rent. Marriages that lasted a summer. Dreams of being someone that fucking mattered. Nothing more. Dennis stayed out on the Jamrock streets and Shanky entered the locker room.

Shanky squinted at the fluorescent, flickering lights. He had 15 minutes to prep before the fight. Jacket off and crumpled on the bench, he pulled his gear out of his dented locker. Shoes. Cup. Shorts. Mouth guard. Shit. Shanky forgot to get new knuckle tape. His roll had gone old and the glue was gummy and ineffective. It wouldn’t get tight and make a solid barrier.

After a quick glance, Shanky spotted a locker with a cheap padlock. Checking over his shoulder and down each of the rows, he pulled out a long, thin knife and jimmied it into the lock. The first tumbler clicked as his dexterous hands shifted and shimmied.

“Hey, no need for that.”

Shanky startled hard. He whipped the knife out of the keyhole and shoved it towards the intruder. The fading image of a high school football hero towered above him. Chiseled jaw and thick necked, he stood with his hands held up. A charming grin stretched his face and his eyes flicked from the knife to Shanky’s balding head. He didn't make eye contact in an attempt to dissuade the rabid animal of a man from stabbing him to shit.

“Who the fuck are you?” Somewhere deep in Shanky, Dennis felt a pang of shame at being caught stealing from a locker, but all he let out was viciousness.  
“The name’s Titus, Titus Hardie.” A dinner plate sized hand gently extended toward Shanky. Satisfied there was no threat, Shanky lowered the knife and shook the hand awkwardly.

“Shanky.”

“What do ya need from that locker?” Titus gestured sharply with his chin. This obviously wasn’t one of the mob guys, he was dressed for sport rather than in the boss’ preferred business casual. His neck towel told him he was one of tonight’s fighters, but he couldn’t be The Titan. Opponents always got ready in separate rooms. It kept unsponsored bloodshed to a minimum.

The man seemed an honest sort, or maybe he was just someone who saw himself as one. A real dependable, moral guy. But, age had started to wear and tear at that naïve self-confidence. The real difficulty of life outside sports and games had started to mold him into something else. Shanky got the feeling that in 10 years Titus would either be some kind of leader or an alcoholic. Maybe both. But right now, he was just a simple guy asking a simple question.

“My tape’s gone to shit. I was going to borrow some. You got a problem with that?” Shanky looked at Titus coldly.

“Want to borrow some from me? Less likely to fuck up yer knife that way.”

Shanky stared at Titus suspiciously. Detecting no condescending bullshit, he relaxed, “Sure, man. I’ll pay you after my match.”

The charismatic grin popped back onto Titus’ face, “Sounds good.”

Shanky went back to his locker and started stretching his arms. Siking himself up. A voice called over the locker wall, “Head’s up!” and a roll of orange tape sailed through the air. Shanky caught it in one hand and started taping his fists.

\---------

Shanky loved walking to the ring. He’d once dreamed about auditoriums of screaming fans and big lights, but now the smell of bloody concrete was enough to get him going. Dark clots of people yelled and shifted like after images in the cigar choked air. The only light sources were a small lamp by the betting table and a single light bulb hung above the ring. Shanky could never do any better than this shitty, sweaty basement and he relished in it. The mob guys gave him a nod as he approached the chipping red outline painted on the floor. He nodded back subtle-like. Same plan. Business as usual.

Shanky rolled his neck and shoved his show hoodie off his shoulders. He jogged a lap around the ring, and settled into his usual spot. A door opened on the other side of the ring and the Titan filled the light with his giant silhouette. His hoodie was drawn up to add drama to his debut. Shanky thought it was dumb, corny bullshit, but the crowds seemed to like it. He glared at the Titan, hating him for the pummeling he was about to get from the oaf. Shanky knew if he was given half the chance he could flatten any fighter the mob threw at him. The Titan was no different.

The crowd was going wild. Frothing at the mouth to see their weaselly favorite flatten another Goliath. Or at least bleed a lot trying. The man took his sweet time swaggering down the short path to the ring. He seemed to get bigger and bigger. Shanky's confidence flickered and he felt his smile wane.

The announcer’s mic sounded a feedback screech before the man’s voice came through, “For tonight’s first fight we have a new contender… Fresh from the harbor at Martinaise and weighing in at a whopping two hundred and thirty pounds! The Titan!!!!!”

The crowd jeered and yelled excitedly. The Titan whipped off his hoodie and raised his arms.The blood rushed in Shanky’s ears. Adrenaline fired lightning up and down his veins. Titus Hardie's charismatic smile beamed out into the audience. A wave of confusion and embarrassment washed over Shanky. Titus must have known who he was. Did he want to meet the face he'd be bludgeoning all night? Did he feel bad for Shanky? He didn’t need Titus’ fucking pity. Anger boiled hot under his skin. Maybe, he could make the fight a little closer than the mob imagined. Get a couple punches in. Win the first round. Wreck that too-good-to-be-true jawline a little bit. The mob wouldn’t be too mad; it’d make the masses double down on their bets anyway.

The crowd quieted, the announcer continued, “And returning again… Riding on a 5 bout win streak… He’s fast, he’s mean, and a fighting machine! The reigning champ: THE SHANK!” The basement erupted in calls, desperate for violence and returns on bets. Shanky raised one hand and grinned devilishly. The boss’ men looked at him suspiciously, but he winked at them. They relaxed. They thought it was all showboating. Shanky would show them.

Hands up, elbows tucked. The two men faced each other. Shanky juggled his balance deftly; left to right and raring to go. The Titan stood motionless, his arms in a tight RockJab pose. An aggressive fighting style based on closing distance quickly and subduing with overwhelming force. Shanky was in his usual MillionWeave form, a little looser and more adaptive. He would strafe right to avoid the quick charge the Titan was planning and do his usual kidney jabs.

The referee’s cheeks puffed around his whistle and the fight started. Feeling his feet moving under him, Shanky's body strafes right like his plan. Too late. A calculating glint flared in Titus’ eye as he slipped lightning quick into a Wave style. The cross landed on Shanky’s face like heavy cannon fire. The roaring crowd muted to a high ringing. Shanky opened his eyes to see a dirty ceiling. A spider crawling on a downy web draped over the light bulb's chain looked back down at him. It cleaned its front legs.

Shanky jolted to awareness too late. The ref slapped the ground the third time and the first bout ended. The bell rang high and clear. Fuck.

Shanky’s man helped him up and handed him his water. He sat on a metal chair. Sweat poured down his face, he wiped it with his towel and it came back crimson. Bastard busted his eyebrow. Somewhere buried deep, Shanky realized this wasn’t going to be a fight to win gracefully. It was a fight to reduce bodily damage. Titus stared at him across the ring, stone faced. Predatory almost. A hint of disappointment set in the twist of his mouth. That fucker. Shanky took another swig of water. The Titan wasn’t the only fighter that knew more than one fighting style. And Shanky won’t underestimate him again.

The whistle sounded and the men circled each other. Titus seemed to know another feint wouldn't work this time, as Shanky kept darting backwards and sideways around the ring. They only had a minute before the crowd would start throwing shit out of boredom. Thirty seconds passed before Shanky made his move. Two speedy jabs blocked by Titus' brick-hard arms, returned by a cross Shanky ducked under. A cool breeze blew through his hair as the fist sliced above his head. The power behind the throw made it slow enough to dodge. It was a warning.

Titus took only a moment to recover before sending a Hammer Fist into Shanky's still crouching body. Pain erupted along the back of his skull and a second hit sailed into his jaws as the impact opened his guard up. The third broke ribs and sent Shanky staggering back to the edge of the ring.

Air couldn't get into Shanky's body fast enough and the edges of his vision started turning black. Every expansion of his chest stung as broken bone dug into flesh. His head felt like it was about to explode from the inside. The hit to the back of his head was the most worrying, Shanky distantly noted that another hit there and he probably wouldn't stay standing. The Titan across the ring started closing ground, his eyes cloudy with blood lust. His big body blotting out the light as he charged.

\---------

The second time Shanky hit the concrete, he didn’t think he'd be able to get back up again. One eye was swollen shut, blood kept blinding the other one, and his split lip stung bad. More worryingly, the room was beginning to spin and he felt a couple broken ribs squeezing into his side.

Shanky dropped the despairing thoughts on Dennis' lap and focused on calculating his next move. He had held his own longer this time, barely managing to dodge most of Titus' punches and landing a few hits after Titus' reckless attack. The other man did not even flinch. The only sign Shanky's punches weren't a delusion was a small bruise marking Titus' cheek from a nasty pot shot.

Paranoid thoughts spun in Shanky’s head. Did the mob tell him to throw the fight as a joke? To spare his feelings? Shame burned in his lungs. This Titus fuck was a god damn wall. No one his size could do shit against him. At this point it was time to choose how he would lose the fight. He couldn't just forfeit or else the mob would have to refund the bets. It would have to be a body hit. Another hit to his face and he’d be going home with slush instead of a brain.

The yellow light poured down on the fighters and gleamed in the little puddles of blood under their feet. Shanky felt a new level of bitterness wash over him. He knew he was going down hard this round. His mouth was full of the tangy taste of blood. It washed down the back of his throat in warm globs. All of his muscles were going numb, his calves especially from the footwork he used to save his more vulnerable body parts. Shanky felt his mortality descend over him as he looked into Titus Hardie's rugged face. This fight would kill him. He would go home in a body bag.

Every cell. Every neuron. Backed into a corner and gun to their head like never before. He was filled with a new fatalistic insanity. His body's drug cabinet flooded his veins: dopamine, norepinephrine, and adrenaline. It was do or die time. All he could think was 'MAKE HIM BLEED.'

The whistle blew and Shanky lunged forward. Another round of quick blows from Titus assaulted his torso, but he felt no pain. An insane sense of joy bubbled in his gut. He shot Titus a bloody grin as the flurry of jabs struck him one after the other. Through the hail the world seemed to slow to a crawl and Titus prepared a particularly hefty cross. The knockout punch for an opponent he assumed was defeated. As he swung his arm back, he left his head open.

A second was more than enough. Shanky’s fist was a bullet flying into Titus Hardie’s temple. The impact rippled up Shanky's arm and deep into the muscles of his shoulder. Titus' face was frozen in dumb surprise as he crumpled to the floor like a broken doll.

Pure searing satisfaction sung through Shanky’s panting body. He spit a red loogie onto the cement and looked out at a gobsmacked audience. Silence reigned. Realization dawned on all of them simultaneously and they erupted in amazed cheers. The safe bet would be paid out tonight.

The scuff of a shoe on concrete behind him made Shanky turn his head. Two tight, red glowering faces gave him all the information he needed to know about the mafia's opinion of his victory. Shanky smiled proud and relaxed, did a slow, showy lap of the ring, and sprinted into the crowd.

\---------

Shanky-now Dennis again-sat in the bathroom of the Innocence Loves You Motel. The worst motel in Revachol. Even he could afford a couple nights stay and takeout here. He had 5 real to his name afterwards. Never a great feeling.

The room had no first aid kit to speak of. He went to grab a towel but had a feeling it was likely to give him an infection if he used it. Dennis contemplated cutting his shirt into rags, but he didn’t have time to grab anything from his apartment. These were his only clothes for now. The mob was probably trashing his home. Waiting to ambush him.

The Shank had been exhilarated by the win. A rush of violent male pride had filled him with enough energy to book it all 15 blocks to the motel. That energy was gone now, leaving Dennis completely deflated. Not only had he done 5 matches for free by messing up that job, but now he had to move the fuck out of Jamrock somehow without being caught and shot.

Dennis ended up staunching most of his bleeding with his neck towel. By the time he cleaned himself up to a degree, the room was spinning and he felt faint. He cradled his throbbing head gently in his still taped hands. What was he going to do? He knew a couple people down by the shipyard, but they certainly didn't owe him any favors. Maybe he could convince them to let him be a stowaway. Sneak off to another isola. Start again. Can't convince anyone without cash though. A sudden knock on the door interrupted his thoughts.

Dennis’ stomach plummeted in fear. He reached for his shank. The knock came again. More insistent. Sliding along the wall, Dennis made his silent approach without standing in the doorway. He knew the mob would shoot through it if they thought he was on the other side. Slowly, he looked through the peephole.

Titus Hardie was on the other side. Looking anxiously left and right down the motel balcony. A softball sized welt marred his handsome temple. Shanky knew this wasn’t the guy the mob would send. He opened the door, leaving the chain on.

“The fuck you want?” Shanky hissed.

“Let me in man. I gotta talk to you about something.”

“How do I know you're not with the mob?”

“You’re not fuckin' dead, are you? Now let me the fuck in.” Having an extended conversation in the doorway was too dangerous. He slid the chain off in record time and shoved Titus into the room. He checked the peephole one more time, and turned to Titus. He had already made himself comfortable on Shanky's bed. His head was turned, looking into his drawstring bag. The welt on Titus' head was a swirl of purple and red marks. It looked like it hurt like a bitch. Shanky was immensely proud that he gave as good as he got in that fight.

“Admiring your handiwork?” Titus chuckled. “Here, catch.” He reached into the bag and tossed out a beer.

It was a Potent Pilsner. Still cold. Shanky watched Titus twist the top off its twin and drain half of it in one swing. He tilted his head and poured the rest over his wound. He shook his head and scattered foamy droplets all over the bed. Shanky squinted at the new stains on the comforter, but immediately lost track of which blotches were new and which were old. He shrugged and took a pull from his own bottle.

“Aaaaaaah. That’s better, huh? Nothing like a cold fuckin’ beer.” Titus smiled lazily and reached for another bottle from his backpack.

“Definitely. Going to be fun to sleep in it later tonight, too.” Shanky glanced dryly at the splash zone around Titus.

“Well. That’s up to you, Shanky,” Titus said lazily.

“Go on.”

“Boxing is my side gig. Right now, I work for a man named Evrart Claire. He has big plans for my hometown, Martinaise,” the man was aglow with hope and pride. He cared about the work he was doing.

“I’m leading a new group in the Union. We’re gonna keep the peace, crack some heads, and drink some subsidized beer,” a lot of gusto and emphasis was placed on that last part. It seemed the free beer worked best on the recruits so far.

“And how does this Evrart Claire feel about the mafia?”

“Well, funny thing about that.” Titus’ second bottle is gone in another gulp. The alcoholism Shanky predicted in Titus might be a sooner rather than later thing. Though that guess happened before he knew Titus was from Martinaise. It was nearly impossible to avoid alcoholism in Jamrock, and there were no sober men left in Martinaise. Titus continued, “You and Martinaise seem to be in a similar situation. And I believe you’ll find working for us very satisfying in that regard. Good pay, good beer… safety… and hey, maybe you’ll eventually learn to enjoy my company.” He smiled, one side of his mouth higher than the other. Shanky did already find himself liking the charismatic man, but didn’t feel a need to show it.

Tomorrow Shanky could move across the world, or across the city. One plan was certainly more solid than the other. His shipyard pals weren’t going anywhere. Shanky found himself squinting harshly at the younger man.

"How many people are in this.. Group so far?"

Titus shifted uncomfortably for a second, the beer was making him easier to read, "So far it's just me and you if you join. I have a pal named Glenn. Craziest bastard you'll ever meet. He's finishing up a quick lorry run now. He'll probably join once he gets back."

Not the answer Shanky was hoping for, but it'd have to do. Even a place to hide in Martinaise would be helpful.

"Where will I be staying?"

"Yeah, we'll probably hole you up in a hostel called the Whirling in Rags for now til we get you set up. All company on dime of course.”

Not bad. Shanky got a feeling that Titus had been thinking of what to say on his way over. Rehearsed or not, it seemed his lucky punch got him a ticket out of jobbing fights for the time being. This could be fun. Group fighting was immensely more satisfying, and he couldn’t even remember the last time he got drunk with other people. Maybe a little human contact was what he needed after all this time

“I’m in.” Shanky held out his hand. Titus grabbed it and enthusiastically pumped it. A tension left the room, and Shanky let himself relax.

“Excellent! We can head out as soon as I finish this bottle.” A third beer had materialized in Titus’ hand. “I know the Shank was your boxing name, what do they call you outside the ring?”

“Shanky is fine.” Shanky could feel the part of him called Dennis shrink a little. He felt glad. Titus bobbed his head and took a sip from his drink.

“Say, does the boss man have a name for this establishment I’m joining?” Shanky asked.

“Well, it’s not set in stone yet, but I was thinking…” Titus scratched his chin thoughtfully. He did one last once over of his name idea, and nodded in satisfaction. “The Hardie Boys.”

Shanky snickered at that and smiled, “Yeah? Guess that’ll fuckin’ do.”

“That’ll fuckin’ do!” Titus laughed and clinked his drink against Shanky’s. “To the Hardie Boys!”

“To the fuckin’ Hardie Boys!”


End file.
